


Interlude

by runningondreams



Category: Marvel 3490
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Undercover Bodyguard, post-sentient-armor arc, protective tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 12:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19767889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: In-ter-lude: A pause between acts of a play. A temporary amusement that contrasts with what comes before or after. An intervening period of time.It’s not really a vacation, but it feels like one.





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirigibleplumbing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirigibleplumbing/gifts).



> For dirigibleplumbing in celebration of 3490fest :D. The prompt I used was “a mission where Steve is undercover as a bodyguard to Natasha while Iron Man is indisposed.” Many thanks to laireshi for cheerleading and beta help!
> 
> * * *

Steve returns from his morning run to find he’s not the only Avenger awake anymore. Jan waves at him from the garden, and there’s a jumble of suitcases by the door. He finds Natasha in the kitchen, dropping bits of mango and handfuls of spinach into the blender.

“You’re up early,” he says, filling a glass of water. 

“I have that conference.” She kisses his cheek on the way to the fridge. “Rhodey’s getting the plane ready.”

Steve frowns, watching her pull out juice and yogurt. “I thought you cancelled that.”

She shoots a distracted glance over her shoulder. “Why would I?”

“Because the armor’s offline? Because you nearly got killed last time you went to one of these things?” They’ve had this talk already. No Avengers business until they’re sure her new metal-and-flesh heart is fully reliable. No wandering off alone until the armor is verifiably non-sentient. He’s almost certain they talked about SI work too.

“That was Madripoor, Steve, this is San Francisco.”

And then she turns the blender on, and he has to stand there and wait until it’s done to get a word in. He downs his water and fills the glass again and tries not to let his mood show on his face. They’ve had _other_ talks too. _Overprotective_ comes up in them a lot, and the arguments spun out of _that_ are the surest way he’s found to push Natasha Stark into doing something reckless.

“Is Rhodey accompanying you?” he asks, mild as he can as she pours bright green smoothie into two tall glass. 

“No, he has some recon to do down the coast.” She presses one cold serving into his free hand. “Don’t give me that look, I was doing this for years before you came along, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You’re very capable,” Steve agrees. “But since you were stranded and dying on a remote island just three weeks ago, I think I’m entitled to make a few faces. At a minimum.”

Natasha hums, non-committal, and takes a sip of her smoothie. She hums again, with more interest this time. Steve tries a sip from his own glass; cold numbs the back of his throat.

“Too much ice,” Natasha sticks her tongue out, dissatisfied, then downs the rest of her serving in a series of long swallows. “Do you have a suit that’s not a tux or your dress uniform?” she asks, moving to the sink.

Steve clears his throat. “I think so. Why?”

“You’ll have to be disguised.” He can barely hear her over the running water. “Can’t take Captain America to a medical conference and expect to get any work done.”

“What?” Steve sets his two glasses in the sink and shuts the water off. “What are you saying?”

Natasha shrugs. “I assumed this was your way of volunteering to come with me. My bodyguard’s out of commission,” she traces a triangle over her chest, “and if I leave you here you’re obviously just going to hover over your phone and ID card and wait for disaster to strike. So, simple solution, you _be_ my bodyguard. In disguise. And then you’ll see exactly how boring these things really are.”

Steve can already think of three ways this could go horribly wrong. His secret identity could come out. _That_ could lead to Natasha’s secret identity coming out too, exactly as she’s getting her company’s reputation into something like stability. Two Avengers in one space is practically asking for trouble to come find them. And undercover. He knows he’s not _good_ at undercover work. Stealth, yes. Guerilla warfare? The more _physical_ aspects of espionage? Absolutely. Pretending to be something he’s not… not so much.

Natasha’s watching him expectantly.

“What _kind_ of disguise,” he asks warily, and she grins.

“I’m sure Jan has something we can use if you don’t want to go full hologram. We’ll get it worked out on the plane.” She looks at her watch. “Which we’ll need to catch in about an hour. Meet you at the front door in twenty minutes?”

“How many days?” he asks, already turning for the stairs.

“Four days, three nights,” she calls after him. “And remember, no uniform, and _no shield_!”

  


* * *

  


The conference is both more stressful than Steve expected and just as boring as Natasha promised. A bodyguard’s job is to watch for potential threats, and Steve’s good at that. Usually, he can pick out a potential danger from across the room. But this particular room is like something out of a nightmare. He doesn’t know enough about these people, or their projects, to make reliable judgements: a curt biologist might be a long-time friend, while a beaming and gregarious roboticist might have kidnapping or sabotage on his mind. It doesn’t matter how much Natasha tells him, or how many profiles he reads: the most important information is all facts he needed to know before they left New York. 

He ends up having to watch Natasha for cues more often than he likes. But not too much. Because a bodyguard who spends all their time watching their client isn’t a bodyguard at all, and someone will notice. 

The feeling of someone watching is omnipresent. Natasha spent the whole first afternoon pointing out cameras and microphones as they walked through the conference center. Every breath, every glance, every shift in weight is recorded.

It makes the back of Steve’s neck itch. The hologram is supposedly undetectable; the mirror, the security scanner and the hacked camera feeds on Natasha’ laptop all show him a rounder face—different nose, heavier brows, curly hair, thinner lips—but it’s still a weakness and worse, it’s a weakness he doesn’t know inside and out. His hair might be dyed darker, but that’s not really enough. Prosthesis and a _real mask_ would be safer. If Natasha’s tech fails, he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Two days in, his fears seem to be entirely unfounded. Natasha attends meetings he can barely follow, and speeches that are only slightly less obtuse. She wears linen and silk suits like armor, and meets old friends he only knows by name, and talks up SI as if a rampaging AI was a minor PR blip rather than a direct threat on her life. Most of his job, so far, has consisted of standing stiff-shouldered against the wall, eyeing the other guards and glaring at people who try to get handsy and who Natasha is perfectly capable of dealing with herself. That and intercepting the servers at the center’s incredibly overpriced restaurant before anyone can make a snide remark about Natasha refusing alcohol. 

It’s almost relaxing. He’s learned more about Natasha’s day to day work and her time at MIT in these few days than in the three years before, and when they finally retire in the evenings she’s his again. Tired, and lazy, but more than happy to share a bowl of ice cream and cuddle into him while a movie drones on in the background. It’s like being home, without having to convince her that a project can wait until tomorrow. Without having to think about roommates. It’s _nice_. It actually feels like the vacation they still haven’t gotten around to taking.

The latest speech, Steve’s actually interested in. “Experiments in Godhood,” Natasha has been calling it, which really just means it’s about gene-editing, which means what this Dr. George Fineray is _actually_ researching is the Super Soldier Serum. 

Apparently it’s considered taboo to actually say so, but still. Steve’s met too many failed or misused after-effects of this sort of experiment to pretend he’s not interested. He has to remind himself to pay attention to his surroundings as well as the presentation, which is why, 20 minutes into a heavily-convoluted explanation of linked gene expressions, he notices a crack in the ceiling. 

A crack that widens to a gaping hole, by which time he’s already moving, trying to attract the seated audience’s attention, but it’s too late. Yellow-clad figures repel down onto the stage, shiny chrome-and-glass weapons in hand. AIM. Someone screams. Fifty people all try to stand up and move at the same time, getting in each others’ way and only adding to the confusion. 

Steve grits his teeth and heads for Natasha. He can see her shoving her way to the front, but after a few feet and a loud whine from one of the weapons he’s thankful to note that she crouches down instead of climbing up and making herself a target.

“Do me a favor and _stay down_ ,” he mutters as he catches up with her.

“They’ve blocked communications,” she says, holding up her phone. The bracelet on her left wrist has expanded somehow, into something that looks like a shell of a gauntlet. “I’m going to break their scrambler. If you can keep them distracted?”

“I told you I should’ve brought the shield,” Steve grumbles, poking at his watch as a bright green beam of energy flashes overhead. “I can’t _throw_ this one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time you want upgrades.” Natasha grins at him. Then grabs his shoulder and kisses him firmly. “Be safe,” she commands.

“Take _care_ ,” he returns with a light touch over her heart, and then he swings up onto the stage and into the fight. 

  


* * *

  


Steve scrapes up his knuckles and completely ruins his best casual suit, but he manages to keep Dr. Fineray alive and whole and un-kidnapped. Natasha manages a few strategic shots to keep AIM guessing at back-up forces until she gets through to the West Coast Avengers, who show up with a lot of enthusiasm and a lot less organization than Steve’s used to. Eventually the day is, for whatever it’s worth, saved. Even their secret identities seem to still be intact, as miraculous as that is. If Dr. Fineray had observed anything particularly extraordinary about Steve, he hadn’t mentioned it before EMTs showed up to wrap him in a shock blanket. Soon, all that’s left is the clean-up. 

Steve aches. His ribs are bruised, and one of the AIM goons had managed to get him in the knee with a glancing blow while he was trying to maneuver the doctor. It’ll pass by morning, he knows, but it still hurts. 

“Shower.” Natasha says, dragging him away from the rubble and milling citizens. “No, better idea. _Jacuzzi_.”

“We should help,” he protests, but not very loudly. Hot water and bubbles sounds heavenly, and Natasha’s not brooking any argument, anyway. Even when they’re securely back in their suite, she doesn’t slow down, pushing him lightly toward the bathroom and peeling him out of the torn and dusty cloth that used to be a decent suit. He starts the bath and helps her with her bra and jewelry, but then she’s pushing him again, gentle but firm, into the big tub.

The water _is_ heavenly, and he leans back against a jet that hits just the right spot between his shoulder blades. Natasha props herself up between his knees and sets to work with the soap. It’s more aftercare than sensual, but it feels good: warm hands, warm water, soft stroking motions and the gentle smell of coconut and lavender in the air. She even washes his hair, and her hands over his ribs are light as feathers.

He opens his eyes and catches her smiling to herself, a soft curve of her mouth. Her hair is sticking up in damp spikes with just a slight curl at the end, and he resists the urge to smooth it down. He _doesn’t_ resist the impulse to press his palm to her chest, over the newest scars. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he murmurs. She looks away and runs light fingers over his bruised knee, her gaze turning distant. 

He reaches for her hand and she stops. “I’ll be fine,” he promises.

“Of course,” she says, and busies herself with kneading more soap into the loofa. 

“Glad I came along?” he asks. 

She rolls her eyes. “I keep telling you, Rogers, I don’t _need_ a babysitter.” 

She presses a kiss to his forehead, and then to his cheek. “But yes,” she says, smiling against his lips. “I’m glad you’re here.”


End file.
